


Amelia at Six

by Hawkbehere



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 10:34:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5866090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hawkbehere/pseuds/Hawkbehere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miranda meets a young reporter. A very young reporter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amelia at Six

**Author's Note:**

> For Rosemary.

* * *

Irving was responsible.

Miranda tapped her fingers on her desk as she waited for a ‘junior reporter’. A high school journalism program he’d put his imprimatur on and had not so subtly demanded she submit to…she supposed…reportage.

She was expecting a bitter, sardonic teen.

That didn’t happen. Emily expressed her full ‘I’m really trying not to roll my eyes’ as she brought in the reporter. A tiny, bony blonde girl who looked like a preschooler.

She marched up to Miranda and shook her hand, “I’m Amelia Sandusky. Here are my press credentials!”

Miranda looked at the card shoved into her hand and said, “So I see you’re short yet legitimate.”

The girl smiled a gap-toothed and winning smile but as she did so, did something else very strange and compelling. She sort of half-wriggled her entire body in what Miranda could only take as, with scant evidence, complete delight.

Miranda was unsure if the girl even knew she’d done it.

“I am! May I sit down, Ms. Priestly?”

“Please do. And please call me Miranda. May I call you Amelia?”

Amelia smiled brightly and spoke in exclamation points Miranda could hear as she said, “Thank you, Miranda! You may!” She took two devices from the backpack that had been slung across her shoulder and placed them on the desk. “I can’t write as fast as anyone talks so these are two recorders—for redundancy!”

The girl’s legs didn’t even reach the floor when she took her seat. As she swung them, Miranda nodded and said, “I understood I was going to be interviewed by a member of a teen journalism program. My apologies for being unable to see you’re not a teenager.”

“I know right?! I’m only six! I’m sorry but I’m one of those crazy kids who’ll be in college when I’m ten!”

Miranda digested that. Quickly. “Well then. I appreciate their sending the very best.”

“Thank you, Miranda! I have to ask you because it’s legal—can I turn my recorders on? I’m just going to transcribe what we say because I think journalism these days needs honesty—not an agenda. Don’t you think?”

“I do. Turn them on.”

The girl did so. Miranda said, “Since you’re transcribing, I’m Miranda Priestly, for the record. 52 years old. State your name and age.”

The girl smiled. “Amelia Sandusky. I’m six!”

Miranda gave her a very, very long look. “Continue.”

“This is so cool—you never talk to the press!”

“No. I never do. Consider yourself warned.”

“Right?! Your hair’s scary.”

Miranda waited but that was all there was. “Was that a question, Amelia?”

“Oh—sorry, Miranda. Yes. Everything’s a question even if it’s not posed as interrogative!”

Miranda blinked. “Very well. My hair is what it is. If people are frightened by it, I have no comment.”

“Oh. Okay. That’s totally cool. Has anyone ever compared you to Cruella De Vil?”

“Not to my face.”

The girl did the wriggle again before asking, “Would you wear a coat of Dalmatian fur?”

“In an afterlife in hell, perhaps. In this life obviously not.”

The girl slapped her hands on her chair, wriggled and smiled, “You’re so—I can’t believe it! I’m so excited!!”

Miranda almost smiled but only said, “Next?”

“Did you know the only domesticated dog with a blue mouth is a Chow?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“You’re sort of like a chow except you’re prettier.”

“As in you think I’m aloof and might plausibly bite you?

The girl wriggled again. “Yes! If you were a fruit, what would you be?”

Miranda stared at her and the girl replied, “My parents said to tell you I didn’t mean that like as in gay. I know you’re sort of gay because you’re married to a woman. I meant fruit.”

Miranda blinked again. “Understood. Before I answer, what fruit would you be?”

Amelia said without hesitation, “A black cherry. It’s the best.”

Miranda nodded, “A good choice for you. Exuberant. I’d be a perfectly succulent orange nearly too sour to eat.”

“Really!?”

“Yes.”

The girl wriggled again. “I think I have a segue, Miranda!”

“I’m all ears.”

“Would you like to go the moon?”

“Yes.”

“Astronaut food would be irritating, though, wouldn’t it?”

That was Miranda’s one anxiety about a moonshot. And the toddler plus had nailed her. “It would.”

“Do you like to be irritated?”

Miranda just stared at the child for a few moments. Staring at the history of her life. “No, I don’t like it but I expect it.”

“Cool. So when you pull the thing off to open the box of soy milk you don’t hate it when it doesn’t come correct and you aren’t all happy when it does but you’re sort of happy it didn’t happen until it did?”

Miranda completely understood and ignored the convolution. “How do you know I use soy?”

“I know Caroline does because I saw her vlog. So…I’m a reporter.”

“And so what?”

“Do you sort of like being irritated?”

“Not particularly. I’m irritated now—do I look amused?”

“I’m only six, Miranda, and I think you sort of do.”

“I don’t see your age as any impediment to our discussion. You’re only now growing real teeth but I have them and will use them. Next.”

Amelia wriggled mightily in her seat. Miranda rolled her eyes but she suddenly and very happily smiled. That was a gotcha—and from a six year old. Fair enough.

“What’s your favorite animal?”

“Giraffes. I won’t say why. I like pelicans because they have improbable knees. I enjoy watching ostriches eat because they’re ludicrous.”

The girl slapped her hands on her seat and made a very, very ‘this is fantastic!!’ face at Miranda, who almost smiled again but didn’t.

“What do you think about slouchy jeans on boys?”

“Finally, an important question.”

There was a long pause. “You’re just kidding me—I can tell.”

“I am. Serious answer. Slouchy jeans on boys or men? I like them only to a point. As with all clothing, figure first. If you can’t wear them, you shouldn’t. I can tolerate perhaps a 2-inch visual of clean briefs or boxers. That’s enough for any sartorial statement. And that, again, would depend on the person in question.”

“What do you think about plastic surgery?”

“Plastic describes its results. Humans aren’t plastic. They’re trying but not yet.”

The girl wriggled in her seat.

“Do you listen to music when you’re angry and if so what?”

“I’m almost never angry. When I am, no—or yes. It depends. Sex Pistols perhaps. They’re sufficiently obnoxious for emotional relief.”

“Do you have friends?”

“Yes.”

“Who don’t work for you?

“Adult question. But yes.”

“If someone stole one of your credit cards, what would you hope they’d buy?”

“You’re using the plural they because it’s stupid and awkward to say he or she. I like the couple they. They could buy anything. I’d hope they’d buy what a normal person who’s not a thief might. A nice meal with wine and a movie. And a sweater if she were cold.”

“What would dogs and cats say if they could talk?”

“Dogs would say I love you. Cats would say you’re so lucky I’m not bigger and stronger because I’d so cheerfully kill you for food. Mom.”

“Does that mean you’re dog person?”

“I’m barely a person, Amelia. Ask anyone. Next.”

“Do you think women should look like the models in your magazine?”

“If they’re capable yes. If not, no. And most women aren’t. They shouldn’t try. And that’s a short answer, Amelia, but it’s complete for intelligent people. Next?”

“What four people in history would you like to have dinner with?”

Miranda sat with that for a long time before answering.

“Jesus, Paracelsis, St. Augustine and Diana Vreeland. We’d eat fish, bread and wine and I wouldn’t dare talk. I’d just want to hear them talk to Diana. She was better than I am but a lot like I am and I’d like watching her taking the brunt.”

The girl didn’t wriggle. She just smiled.

“What do you wish more people knew?”

“Really?”

Amelia nodded.

“More vocabulary for emotion. You’re not sad. Maybe you’re wistful. You’re not angry. Maybe you’re hurt and confused. There are thousands of words for how you feel. Learn them and you’ll feel them. People need more words for feelings.”

Amelia wriggled vigorously, “I think I gotta scoop, Miranda.”

“You got nothing, kid. What else?”

“Nothing! Time’s up. I’m sorry I’m a newbie!”

Miranda stood. “No worries. You did a great job.”

Amelia put her recorders in her bag and shook Miranda’s hand, “You’re so real. But I heard you. There are lots of words for real. But you’re so you—and real. So thanks.”

Miranda only nodded.

A truculent (she knew that word) Emily guided her to the elevator as she felt YES!

Miranda felt yes, as well.


End file.
